The Folly of Hope
by OrangeShipper
Summary: Following directly from the end of 2x01, as Matthew hears the shot fired and realises what Thomas has done.


A/N: _I'm really not sure what to say about this! It's very much a departure from my usual writings, I suppose, in that there's not a scrap or a hint of M/M. It's just... I've wanted to write something of this nature for a long, long time; namely Matthew's reaction to Thomas's wound. Because Matthew isn't an idiot; he'd know something was up with that. And I really felt it was a waste, that their relationship and the tentative bond they'd have developed by meeting in the trenches was never explored more._

_Anyway, this happened, and I hope you enjoy it!_

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><p><strong><span>The Folly of Hope<span>**

"What would my mother say," Thomas drawled, with an amused smile. "Me entertaining the future Earl of Grantham for tea…"

Matthew laughed as he picked up his helmet. He was right; it did seem ridiculous, in a way. They'd always seen each other across a room, as if looking through opposite sides of a window, the one serving and the other served without really very much thought for the other. How stupid it all seemed now, as they perched on rotten boards together under a makeshift tin shelter dug into the side of a sodden, pissing trench in France.

"War has a way," Matthew said after a moment's thought, "of distinguishing between the things that matter, and the things that don't." Titles and roles… of the old sort, anyway, didn't matter at all, not here. They were all just men, all in the same rotten mud. The Germans didn't care whether he was the heir to an Earldom, or that Thomas was a footman. They weren't, anymore. Not here. They were just two soldiers – a Lieutenant and a Corporal, granted (there needed to be some sort of order to things), but across the wasteland they were, ultimately, just two men fighting for their lives.

Thomas nodded thoughtfully, a distracted smile hovering on his lips as he thought about what the other man had said. It had taken a while, but he'd grown to harbour a sort of grudging respect for the Crawley heir, from what he'd picked up from the sidelines of the dinner table and the drawing room. And – well, he was _here_. And he seemed to understand what mattered. _Life_ mattered. And Thomas would be damned if he let himself forget that.

Pulling on their helmets, the two men stooped and ducked under the lip of the shelter, out into the cold and the dark. At least it wasn't raining tonight. A brief respite, always so brief, that was all they ever were granted.

Matthew returned Corporal Barrow's salute with a supportive nod, and a smile, before carrying on his way. He wanted to make his way round the whole company before he turned in; there was little enough he could do on nights like this but at the very least, he could show them his face and let them know he was with them. That, quite often, was enough. He squeezed around the corner, to where two of his men were poorly attempting to write letters in the dark, their paper resting on their muddied knees.

"Alright, chaps?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Sir," the younger man on the left grinned up. His face was smooth under the dirt, fresh and unworn by much action, yet. He was a clerk, Matthew remembered. The other, Jacobs, was a butcher. "My sister's just had a baby, you see!"

"Oh, how splendid," Matthew smiled warmly. "You must have just missed it!"

"I reckon so, Sir. Post-mark on the letter is the day after we came back out."

"Typical," Jacobs snorted. "Knowing your luck –"

"Oh, don't say that –" Peterson started to whine, and Matthew chuckled dryly. They all had their superstitions, and this young man hated the idea that he harboured some sort of bad luck. If it got any worse… he'd find it harder to go out again. He patted the young man's shoulder firmly.

"Easy, Peterson. There's nothing at all wrong with your luck; and at least with a letter you can –"

The loud crack and echo of a bullet killed the words on his lips. Matthew's head snapped instantly round, his assurance left unfinished as he ran back along the trench, others scrambling behind him at the noise.

His hand braced on the wall as he lurched around the corner in that strange, stooping lurch of a run that he'd long adopted to keep his head down. When he saw Thomas, fallen against the side of the trench clutching his hand as thick, dark blood poured between his fingers, he dropped to his knees beside him.

"S-sir –" Thomas choked out from between fiercely gritted teeth, his back writhing in pain.

"It's alright, it's alright…" Matthew tried to calm him, before flinging over his shoulder, "What are you standing there for, Private, get a bloody medic!" Someone scuttled off to obey him. "Give the man some space," he muttered, effectively dismissing those who had gathered before he turned back to Thomas. "Show me – what happened?" His heart thudded though he felt oddly calm, no longer fazed by the unexpected like this, awful though it was. His glittering eyes searched the Corporal's figure for any more signs of damage, and awareness.

"Bastards s-shot my hand."

He was pale, and shaking, obvious even in the moonlight. Matthew gently prised his hand out to see the damage, whipping out a handkerchief and clamping it tightly over the wound. Not too quickly to have gotten a proper look at it.

"How did it happen?" he whispered harshly. The wound was too clean, too central, too perfect. Peering under the rim of his helmet, he frowned at the wildness of Thomas's eyes as the Corporal struggled to answer him, only shaking his head a little and gasping. "What did you _do_?" he asked again, resisting the urge to shake him.

Thomas shunted himself up more against the trench wall, trying to shrug Matthew away, refusing to meet his eyes. His jaw was tightly clenched against the pain, his whole body trembling from cold and fear and the sharp, blinding throb in his hand.

"I… they bloody s-shot me," was all he would say.

"You idiot," Matthew hissed, bringing his face close to Thomas's in the dark. "You _bloody idiot_. What the _hell_ did you –"

"I – couldn't, Sir," Thomas shook uncontrollably. Distant shouts echoed down the line, signalling the approach of a medic. He swallowed, watched the back of Matthew's head for a moment as he turned to see their progress before those cold, blue eyes lanced into him again. "I just – couldn't –"

"You could get a bloody court-martial – you probably _will_!" Matthew was angry, blindingly angry. How selfish, how _stupidly_ selfish – but, at the same time… of course they all wanted to get out. Of course they did. But it wasn't _fair_, that didn't make it alright!

Thomas laughed humourlessly, and bitterly. "Reckon I fancy prison to here, Sir." The pain was dulling, now. His hand was numb. Matthew was still grasping it tightly, the blood coating the soft leather of his gloves.

"I can't do anything, you know," he whispered fiercely, his voice shaking. This was too close, too close to home. "You're nothing to do with my unit, and I can't help you. I'd be in the stink if I tried. Not that you'd bloody deserve it."

"I – know."

"And it looks bad. You stupid, _stupid_…"

"I _know_!" Thomas gritted out, his chest rising and falling sharply as they glared at each other. Matthew shook his head. There wasn't time for anything else, as the medic and Peterson stumbled around the corner.

"Sir!" the medic hissed quietly, dropping beside them and pulling out gauze. Matthew rocked up from his knees, and pulled himself up into a low stoop.

"It's his hand," he directed quietly, not looking at Thomas. "Bullet wound, it looks clean. It was a bloody lucky shot."

"Right."

The medic didn't question the injury, and Thomas threw a desperate, grateful look at Matthew, who ignored it. Within moments, the wound was hastily but effectively (as much as it could be, anyway) wrapped and dressed, as Thomas bit back quiet grunts of pain. The medic hooked his arm under Thomas's shoulders, and dragged him up. "Come on, then, let's get you down…"

"Thank you," he managed; though he'd glanced back over his shoulder to Matthew as he said it. Matthew only nodded.

"Perhaps I'll see you sometime, Corporal," he muttered. Truthfully, Matthew wouldn't wish imprisonment (or in the worst cases, the firing squad) on anyone. He could… _God_, he could understand them! He knew how desperate it was, how unbearable, how… _shit_ it all was. But that wasn't the _point_, you couldn't – you couldn't just expect to walk away from it! He grimaced. Not without scars, anyway. No matter how disappointed, how _furious_ he was with Thomas, there was that tiny, tiny part of him that understood. But it was _wrong_.

Thomas nodded over his shoulder. "I do hope so, Sir," he almost whispered.

There was something sincere about it that made Matthew's heart stab.

He _did_ hope so. There were so many people he… hoped to see again. Perhaps the least of them was Thomas Barrow. But… he _did_ hope, because, really… that was all they could do.

If he ever got away with that bloody, idiotic wound, anyway.

**Fin**

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><p>AN: _Thanks so much for reading! I'd really love to know what you thought - I'd be so interested to see what people think of the whole concept of Matthew and Thomas relating in the trenches and if it'd have any impact afterwards. Do let me know! _

_Thank you!_


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